


Thirty (One) Dirty Words - A 2011 MMOM Challenge

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Other, Thirty (One) Dirty Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 10,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May is the Merry Month of Masturbation and for each of the 31 days, I am writing a ficlet of exactly 300 words, based on a list of prompts of my own choosing.  All of the fics are in the White Collar universe, and they aren't interconnected in plot or time or act, except that they are all about the act of self-pleasure.  Chapters 17, 24 and 25 are RPS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guilty Stains (Underpants)

Peter’s knew his unrequited lust for Neal Caffrey was getting out of hand when he stole a pair of his partner’s boxer briefs out of the basket of dirty laundry in his bathroom.

He went back into Neal’s apartment, the underwear stuffed deep in the pocket of his suit pants, tried to act normally. He must have been a miserable failure because Neal asked him three times if everything was all right. After a half-hour, Peter finally admitted that he was feeling kind of “off” and told Neal he’d see him in the morning. Getting down the stairs with a massive, aching erection was difficult, and he hoped that no one saw him practically stumble to the Taurus.

He got behind the wheel, and pulled the stolen underpants out of his pocket. Making sure that no one could see him, Peter opened his fly and pushed the proceeds of his crime into his own underwear. His cock gave a small spurt of pre-come over the soft cotton and lycra, and Peter immediately regretted the action. He had wanted to revel in the scent of Neal’s body - the day’s man-sweat - before he despoiled them. He quickly zipped up, buckled up, and drove home.

It was a ride home that lasted an eternity - he kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but the feel of the alien fabric against his oversensitive cock was making him blind with lust.

He didn’t remember how he was able to park, get into the house and climb up the stairs, but he was naked before he got into his bedroom. It didn’t take more than two pulls on his cotton-wrapped cock before he came, sticky white strands of semen staining the black fabric of another man’s underpants.


	2. Unbruised (Skin)

He touches himself and tries not to think of him, of his hard hands and mobile mouth, the lips quick to smile. He tries not to think of the rough silk of his hair, cut short and framing that beautiful/not-so-beautiful face. He touches himself through the soft fabric of his sleep pants and tries to blank his mind against anything but the touch of his fingers sliding, teasing, toying with his cock, letting the wetness soak through the fabric that feels so good against his skin, yet never quite erasing the sense memory of rougher, coarser material.

And even that sense memory is a betrayal, because he wants Peter to be like those prison-issued clothes, rough, brutal, hard on his skin.

Neal never likes to think of himself as tender, soft, delicate – he’s been through way too much in his life. But he knows he wears that mask too well – the too-pretty ex-con who likes art and music and all the fine things in life.

Because he wants the brutality of Peter’s hands, the deeply colored bruises on his skin as Peter manipulates him, forcing him to take what Peter wants to give him. But Peter will never do that – he treats him like he’s made of the finest, most fragile porcelain. His touch is worshipful, respectful, tender in ways that makes Neal want to cry. Peter’s kisses are like hummingbirds sipping from a feeder, his touches are like butterfly wings brushing up against the wind.

So when Neal strips and touches himself tonight, he keeps all thoughts of Peter at bay as brutalizes his skin, pulling hard, almost to the bruising of bruising himself, although he wants to. But he doesn’t – he doesn’t want his lover to worry, to question, to wonder at the marks that stain his skin.


	3. Wedding Night (Fingers)

She ghosted her fingers over a tightly furled nipple, the sensation a pleasure for both the finger - which enjoyed the variations in texture - and the nipple - which reveled in the touch of warm skin. She teased herself, pinching lightly, then flicking the tip of her breast with a sharp, polished finger nail.

“Have you decided to start without me?” A deep, masculine voice commented from the doorway.

Elizabeth looked up and smiled. Her new husband - new as in less than ten hours - stood there, grinning like he just won the lottery. Peter was absolutely gorgeous, wearing nothing more than the trousers from his tuxedo and his dress shirt opened to the waist.

“Just thinking about you - and what you’re going to do to me tonight.” A spurt of excitement leaked from between her thighs, spoiling the white lace panties she was still wearing.

“Tell me,” Peter growled but didn’t move away from the doorway.

Elizabeth bit her lip, suddenly embarrassed. She didn’t say anything, but her thighs rubbed against each other, trying to hide her excitement.

“Come on, El - what am I going to do to you?”

Her eyes widened as Peter moved his hand against the front of his trousers, the long fingers of his left hand now glinted with the bright gold of his new wedding ring.

“You’re … going to … fuck me.” The words rushed out of her - bald and inelegant.

“Yeah, I’m going to fuck you, honey. I’m going to fuck my wife.”

She loved the sound of that “fuck my wife,” and her left hand, with its own wedding band dove deep into the wet nest between her thighs.

Against the slick sound of her rubbing fingers, she heard Peter’s harsh words of encouragement.

“Yeah - I’m going to do that to you, and a lot more.”


	4. Not His Hands (Nails)

Neal looked at his hands - they weren’t the hands of a gentleman anymore. Palms and fingers were calloused, cuticles were cracked and his nails - ragged, rough, broken. His whole being in a microcosm.

But nothing that couldn’t be fixed, given time and the right materials.

He thought about Kate, how she used to twine her fingers with his when they walked together, or how her fingernails used to toy with his body - playing with his nipples and his navel, scratching at the Maginot line of his pubic hair.

He thought about Alex - a clever little cat - biting and scratching, her long, blood-red nails leaving equally blood-red marks down his back.

He liked that little bit of pain, the memory of it reminded him that he was still alive, still present in this world.

There was a set of nails he didn’t like to think of, though. The belonged to hands that were hard, firm, purposeful. Hands he wished he had never seen, but now couldn’t stop seeing. Hands with nails that were as untended as his own, but not from circumstance.

Neal touched himself, rubbing the harsh orange fabric against his cock, wishing, dreaming, longing for that set of hands to pull at him, to scratch and bruise and give him purpose. To work him like a beast in the field.

He bit his lip and and closed his eyes - as luxurious has he had made his cell - it was still a prison cell, framed in concrete and iron, harsh and narrow and rigidly confining.

Neal dug his nails into the cloth covering his body, unwilling to touch himself skin-to-skin tonight. He wanted the pain - then he could let himself imagine who was touching him.

Not Kate.

Not Alex.

Not his own hand.

But Peter’s.


	5. The Perfect Size (Hair)

He calls himself “follicularly challenged,” or sometimes “differentially hirsute,” but the truth of the matter is that he’s bald. A chrome dome. He’s been that way since his mid-thirties, and no amount of ground unicorn-horn or four-toed dragon snot is going to cure it. His idols should have been Patrick Stewart and Avery Brooks, but he still prefers the classics – William Shatner and his well-coiffed space-aged pompadour, Leonard Nimoy and his slick, hyper-cut pageboy with the pointed sideburns.

And alas, Mozzie would have to be friends with the man who had the best hair in New York City – the entire five boroughs – not just Manhattan. He tells himself that he doesn’t envy Neal – his weekly budget for product probably exceeds the miniscule amount he takes home from the “day job,” and you know he doesn’t go to Supercuts.

And yet, he is not Sampson, Delilah’s victim. No lack of hair can ever reduce Mozzie’s intellectual powers – he likes to say that his brain ran so hot that it simply killed his hair follicles. And then there is the other brain – the one that isn’t kept between his ears. You know – the one in his pants.

At night, alone, naked, Moz likes to sit on a tatami mat, letting the weight of his cock press against his thigh. He meditates, and even though Moz is not a true Tantric practitioner, his chakras align and things start to develop. Pleasantly.

His best ideas seem to come when he is sporting a massive erection, and it is truly massive. He conceived the Kandinsky job and the Waterhouse swap under just such circumstances.

But sometimes, he can’t be bothered with such intellectual pursuits. Sometimes, the only thing that matters is that his hands are just the right size for a really good wank.


	6. Wet Dog (Wet)

It was a hard day, made harder by chasing a suspect through the Upper West Side, a twenty-block run that wore out shoe leather and patience. As Peter tackled the man at the corner of Broadway and 79th, as he was about to escape into the subway system, one of those freak springtime rainstorms blew in. It opened up a can of whoopass on upper Manhattan and just as quickly moved out, leaving everyone drenched in its path.

The rest of the White Collar team followed in sedans and surveillance vans, safe and dry. They took possession of the suspect and left a dripping Peter and Neal two blocks from June’s mansion and the prospect of hot showers, dry clothes and pots of Italian roast coffee.

As they trudged west on 79th, Peter blocked out the squelching sound of his waterlogged shoes by focusing on Neal’s tight ass. It was such a thing of beauty. High and tight and hard, like a pair of apples. Neal was carrying his ruined suit coat, and those apples were on glorious display, shifting back and forth with his gait.

Peter licked his lips and kept his eyes glued to Neal’s ass, not letting anything like traffic, other pedestrians or the occasional baby stroller distract him. The friction of his own damp clothing wasn’t a deterrent to his arousal and he didn’t care that he was beginning to publically sport wood. Peter followed Neal like a hound on a scent to June’s mansion, up the stairs and into the apartment.

Neal finally turned and looked at him. Peter blinked – as the objects of his reverent gaze disappeared from view. He dragged his eyes up to Neal’s smirking face.

“Umm, Peter – I was about to suggest a hot shower, but I think – given your current state of affairs, you may want to take a cold one, instead.”


	7. Too Much, But Not Enough (Dry)

Neal could hate when Peter got like this – fascinated and almost naively inquisitive. He couldn’t help but respond to his eagerness, to push his body to the limits because Peter was enthralled. His excitement, his intensity created a feedback loop in Neal, and they fed into each other - an endless circle of desire.

On nights like this, when Peter wanted to explore, to play, to go somewhere beyond the last marker, Neal was an eager participant. Both leader and follower.

Peter was always intrigued by Neal’s apparently endless sexual stamina – his ability to respond and keep responding, over and over again. But the game tonight was hands only – round after round of jacking off like he was a horny teenager.

“Had enough yet?”

Neal’s cock, orgasmed and pulled and stroked almost past the point of endurance, perked up at the challenge in Peter’s voice.

Neal smiled. “Clearly not.”

“How many times does that make?”

“Four.”

“Only four?” Peter grinned, sitting back on his haunches, naked. “Come on, Neal – you can do better than that.”

“Then suck me, I want to feel your mouth on me.”

“No, not yet. I want to see you stroke yourself off again. Come on.” Peter toyed with his own dick, seemingly unaware that it was leaking precome like an opened fire hydrant. The bastard hadn’t come, yet.

Neal’s cock, on the other hand, was dry as the high desert in winter. He first spent himself all over Peter’s torso as he knelt over him. Then on the sheets, as Peter cradled him, chest to back. On his own belly next. Finally, the last of his juices were barely enough to coat his fist.

But as dry as he was, his cock, and his mind, and his heart were still game. Neal reached for the lube.


	8. An Indescribable Shade (Blue)

There are many shades of blue - probably more than Peter could ever count.

There’s the deep blue of his wife’s eyes, which was as warm and inviting as the summer sky just before the day ends. Then there’s the blue of Neal’s eyes - which should be cold, a little icy, but it’s not. It’s like the first part of the blue sky at dawn.

Then there is the blue of his balls. There simply was no fanciful, flowery, poetic way to describe that color. Or the condition.

This weekend was the worst. Well, no - it was the best. He came back from days of reports and presentations at Quantico to find that his wife and his lover were wearing matching corsets. El’s was velvet - royal blue. Drawn tight, it turned her lush figure into a perfect hourglass. It made her breasts… Oh, god - her breasts. Even the thought of them, on display like that, had the power to wind him up.

Neal’s corset was leather, and the same royal blue as his wife’s, creating a perfect “V” out of his torso and restricting his movements.

He had just stood there, hot and aroused beyond bearing, beyond rational thought. He didn’t know where to go first, and his loves just laughed and dragged him into bed.

The memory of that night and the rest of the weekend was giving a hard-on the size of the Louisville Slugger outside Yankee Stadium. But this was the morning staff meeting, and he needed to pay attention, not fantasize about Neal and Elizabeth in bondage gear.

Peter looked at his watch and calculated that he had another ten minutes before he could escape to the men’s room and jerk off. He hoped his balls, as blue as they were, could survive that long.


	9. Cherry Red (Red)

“Have you been a bad girl?” The voice on the other end of the line was low, threatening, delicious.

“Mmm hmmm. Yes, I have.”

“ ‘Yes, I have’ what?”

“Master, I’ve been a very naughty girl.”

“What have you done, Sara Ellis?”

She shivered at the threat in that simple question, her nipples turned hard as stone and her pussy just gushed. “I disobeyed you, Master. I brought my cherry red dildo with me, and I used it on myself. Many times.”

“You have been a bad girl, indeed. Your orgasms belong to me. What shall I do with you?”

Sara bit her lip and rubbed her thighs together. “I think you should spank me, Master. You should spank me with your hand until my ass turns red and I can’t sit down.”

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Haven’t you learned your lesson, my dear, about topping from the bottom?”

Her breath hitched, her Master was smart, of course, and he wasn’t going to take direction from her. “I’m sorry, Sir.” She wished she was there, in his presence, ready to take whatever punishment he was willing to give her.

“I’m going to have to think about your punishment, my dear. But until you come home, you will be obedient. Do you understand?”

The promise and the threat were almost enough to bring her to orgasm. “I do, Master. I swear I won’t myself to give either pleasure or pain.”

“Good - I will know if you do, Sara. And your punishment will be that much worse.” There was pause, laden, fraught. “Have a good night, Sara. Sleep well.”

The call disconnected and Sara dropped the phone on the hotel nightstand.

She lay down, and kept her hands at her side in perfect obedience. _Goodnight, Peter. Goodnight, my Master._


	10. Strange Antiquities (Ivory)

The Customs area at the JFK cargo terminals was a busy place, but Peter held up his badge and was ushered into the holding area, Neal hot on his heels.

“Agent Burke!” A ICE agent approached. “Did you bring Mr. Caffrey?”

Neal waved and the agent breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for coming.”

Neal opened his mouth, but Peter cut him off. “What’s the problem? Why do you need my consultant?”

The agent pushed a folder at Neal. “Are these authentic?”

Neal walked over to a brightly lit table and began his examination. “These are the provenance for a set of ivories from France, circa 1759?”

The ICE agent affirmed. “They supposedly belonged to the Duc du Orleans, and are part of a collection that’s being auctioned. Since they’re ivory, we can’t let them in without confirming they’re genuine antiques.

Neal turned to Peter. “This doesn’t feel right. The paper is correct, but there’s something off about the language. This is a bill of sale describing _douzaine de_ …” Neal actually blushed.

“Neal?”

 _“Godemichés.”_

“Godemichés?”

Neal’s blush got brighter. “A dozen dildos.”

“Oh.”

The agent shifted from foot to foot. “You want to see them?” He opened a large old leather case, hand tooled and gilded.

Their jaws dropped. These weren’t just dildos. They were, well… massive. Works of art, but massive. The smallest was a foot long and six inches around. And extraordinarily lifelike.

“I guess the Duchesse was a size queen.” Peter quipped.

“Except that these were the personal property of le Duc, according to the documentation.” Neal replied. There was something so arousing about these obscene antiquities, and on days like this, Neal really loved his work.

He tried to be discreet as he brushed his hand against his crotch. As discreetly as Peter was.


	11. Implacable (Silk)

The blindfold was silk, the corset, leather. He waited, hard, wanting, eager. His excitement and the tight bindings made it difficult to breathe.

“Touch yourself, Neal.”

His heart sang at that voice – so stern, so beloved. Three words and compliance was ensured.

Neal gently brushed his fingers against his cock. He didn’t touch bare skin, though. Peter had wrapped his penis and balls in the softest silk – it was tissue thin but strong, gathered and tied like a present for someone.

“Harder, Neal.”

He could feel his precome wet the silk – it wasn’t just the command, it was the way Peter said his name; to ensure that Neal remained Neal, and did not become a shadow of some other persona.

He squeezed his dick through the silk covering, and rubbed his thumb across the head. He panted, unable to get enough air into his lungs. He pulled and stroked, always aware of Peter, watching and judging. He hoped he wasn’t found wanting.

Neal panted and pulled and grew dizzy.

“Do you want to come, Neal?”

His name, always his name. He nodded, breathless.

“Tell me what you want.”

Neal fought for air, but kept stroking himself, the wet silk now an irritant. “I want you to touch me.” He paused, seeking air. “I need your mouth on my cock.”

Peter laughed. “I bet you’d like that.”

Neal rubbed harder, faster, and begged. “Please.” In the darkness behind the mask, he didn’t know if he was fading out. “Please.” His hands slowed. “Please, Peter. I need … you.”

Peter didn’t answer and Neal’s universe was reduced to the hot wetness of his cock under his hand and the hot wetness of tears running down his face.

He struggled for one more breath, and as he came, it was stolen by a kiss.


	12. Far From Home (Velvet)

It should have been ridiculous. It was certainly not manly. But in truth, it was absolutely wonderful. The blue velvet robe was soft and warm and utterly sensuous. It made him feel cherished.

He took a deep breath and the scent of his wife and his lover filled his head, sending a sharp arrow of desire through him.

He was sequestered in a hotel room in St. Louis, in the middle of a major trial and tomorrow would be the second of three days of direct testimony, plus probably another two days of cross examination. He was bored and lonely and he wanted to be with the two people who matter most in his world.

The robe, though – that was making it possible – in a way. He had found it when he unpacked, with a note from Elizabeth:

 _Neal screwed me senseless while I was wearing this, but not before eating me out as if I were a late night snack. I let him wear it when I rode him like an obscene circus pony._

 _Wear it and think of us. We’ll be thinking of you while you’re away._

He undid the sash and as he stroked his cock, Peter let the fantasies play out behind his eyelids.

 _Neal on his knees, blindfolded, mouth opened and waiting for his cock._

 _Elizabeth in the corset, hands bound, ass in the air, still pink from her spanking._

 _Neal and Elizabeth in the classic “69” position and him faced with the delicious dilemma of who to fuck first._

As he came, Peter rubbed his cheek against the velvet shoulder of his robe, the soft nap catching against his late-day beard. The sensation was delicious, like rubbing his face against Neal’s chest or El’s sweet ass.

But Peter still wished he was home with them.


	13. White Ribbons (Ribbon)

They were getting ready for bed when Elizabeth dropped her bombshell. “I want to watch you two jerk off.” A simple declarative sentence that aroused and horrified both men.

“What?” Neal and Peter replied simultaneously.

El sat on the bed, the heel of her palm pressing into her crotch. “Rub one off, choke the chicken, you know, masturbate.”

“El …”

“No, Peter – you boys get to have fun all day long. I’m stuck in client meetings and you’ve probably got Neal on his knees in the men’s room.

Neal bit his lip to stifle his laughter. She wasn’t far off the mark – they took a long coffee break yesterday at the new Starbucks, and Peter had dragged him into the bathroom for a blowjob.

“But why do you want to see us jerk off?” Peter asked a good question.

El blushed bright red, and Neal knew what she was thinking. So did his dick.

“Since when have you had these porn star fantasies, Mrs. Burke?”

Peter picked up that train of thought too, and the front of his shorts bulged obscenely.

El got down on her knees before her men and gave them a scorching up-from-under look.

Their bedroom was filled with the sound of syncopated beat of fists on flesh on flesh and heavy breathing. As he beat off, a stray thought ran through Neal’s head, how the hell did he get so lucky? To be loved and trusted by these incredible people.

Then all coherent thought left his brain as he saw Peter erupt in white ribbons of come all over Elizabeth’s face. With a groan, Neal’s came too - splashing across that small distance, decorating El’s face and tits with his own white ribbons.

Neal watched Peter fall to his knees and start licking their semen off his wife.


	14. Bound (Rope)

Peter tied the last knot and stepped back, admiring his handiwork. The elementary _shibari_ pattern that crossed Neal’s body, bisecting his torso, binding his arms, was his finest effort yet. Neal looked at him, the gentle smile a direct contrast to the blaze of desire in his eyes.

He loved how pliant, how quiescent Neal got in the ropes, such a lovely contrast to his otherwise challenging and effervescent personality. “Are you okay?”

Neal slowly blinked, his smile deepening, but he said nothing.

“Good.” Peter ran his fingers across Neal’s bound flesh. The ropes were just the right tension, and when he removed them, they were going to leave lovely red lines all over his lover’s perfect body.

“What would you like next, Neal?” This was always a very strange type of play between them. Neal let himself be bound, he reveled in his submission to Peter, but Peter also submitted, in a way, to Neal. He wanted to give Neal everything he wanted, he needed, only taking what Neal was willing to give.

Neal canted his hips towards Peter, his tumescent, unbound cock dripping with precome.

Peter knew just what Neal wanted. He slicked up his belly with lube and got Neal in the right position on his back, thighs spread, and he hovered on top of him.

As he captured Neal’s lips and they started kissing, Neal began to lever his hips back and forth, frotting his cock against Peter’s belly. The sensation was indescribable - like hot, wet velvet. Peter jumped, just a little ticklish, as the head of Neal’s cock poked into his navel.

Neal’s act of self-pleasure set up a feedback loop of desire, and Peter slid down Neal’s body. Their cocks rubbing together, pubes tangling, triggered the most perfect orgasm, hot and long and sweet.


	15. Cool Metal (Cuffs)

Neal has a thing for the cuffs.

He always regretted that Jones, not Peter, put them on him when he was arrested that day. In prison, he’d jack off to fantasies of Peter locking the manacles on his wrists, dragging him to a standard issue Bureau sedan and forcing himself on him. Pressing him down on the warm hood of the car and fucking him in front of all of the other agents. Asserting his dominance, his control. Since this was a fantasy and no one could be hurt, he sometimes would be staring at Kate as she watched Peter shove his big, fat cock into his body. Kate wouldn’t be completely horrified. He’d watch, bound and helpless as she shoved a hand into her pants and fingered herself to orgasm.

When Peter arrested him for the pink diamond theft, he didn’t know how to react. Of course, he was outraged that Peter would think him so foolish to sign the diamond after pointing out his signature in the bonds. But his body knew just how to react. As Peter tightened the cuffs around his wrists, his fingers hot in contrast to the cool polished steel, Neal began to develop an erection of massive and embarrassing proportions. Peter knew him too well, and draped his jacket over his hands as he did the perp walk out of the office, and not because it disguised the handcuffs. He was barely able to walk by the time they got to the booking facility, and he was very grateful to be able to get to the mens room and rub one off before having to surrender his Devore for an orange jumpsuit.

These days, all Peter had to do was rattle the cuffs to get him hard. Something he did with demonic frequency.


	16. Monday Morning (Whip)

  
It was sleeting outside, and Peter wanted something a little heartier than a double espresso. “Venti caffe mocha, please.” He smiled at the barista and moved over to wait for his order. He felt a little out of it – but in a good way. Loose-limbed, buzzed, ready to face the day.

Last night was … exceptional.

 _He had sat back in a comfortable chair in Neal’s new loft and watched as his lover laced El into the blue velvet corset. Her hair was pinned up, leaving her neck and breasts on display. As Neal pulled the laces tight, Elizabeth’s breaths got shallower, her pupils dilated and she shifted her thighs back and forth._

 _“She’s all ready for you.”_

 _Peter went to his wife, who was standing there like a captive slave girl. He ran a leather-gloved hand down her body, pausing at her lush breasts, before cupping her sex._

 _“Do you want me to fuck you, wife?”_

 _El clamped her thighs tight around his hand, and he could feel the burning heat, but not the moisture that was slicking up his glove. She rocked against him, fucking herself against his intruding fingers._

 _That was his answer._

 _He pulled out the riding crop stuck down the back of his pants and replaced his fingers with it, letting El masturbate against the braided leather._

 _In his peripheral vision, Peter something moving – Neal’s hand and arm sliding up and down. The little shit was beating off while watching him torment Elizabeth._

 _ **Good**._

 _He pulled the crop out and El shrieked in pleasure. He raised his arm to smack her ass with it._

“Whip, sir?”

Startled, Peter shook his head. “What?”

“Whip cream on your caffe mocha?”

“Umm, yeah. Sure.” Peter smiled.

Starbucks, a hard-on. What a nice way to start a Monday morning.


	17. Kinky Freak (Mouth) - WC RPS

He didn’t have to tell Simon, he already knew. And Simon, wise Simon, wonderful Simon, understood completely.

In fact, he did everything he could to enable the obsession.

He’d send pictures, close-ups cropped from photos and videos, emailed to him at random points during the day. It was a little disconcerting when those pictures would arrive; sandwiched between snapshots of Kit’s latest masterpiece or a video of the twins screaming “We Miss You, Daddy!!!”

It wasn’t as if the photos were obscene or incriminating or embarrassing.

Well, maybe they were embarrassing, if just for the reaction they sparked in him. There was one “pose” that was such an immediate turn-on for him that he’d get dizzy from all the blood rushing to his dick. And he couldn’t stop looking at it.

It didn’t help that Tim – best friend, life coach and wicked tease, saw the picture and his reaction. But consummate professional that he was, he didn’t say anything until shooting ended for the day.

“Are you going to make it back to your apartment before jerking off?” Tim whispered in his ear as they waited for the car service to take them from the studio to their respective apartments.

Matt didn’t bother to play coy. “I think I can contain myself.” He lifted his chin in challenge. “And doesn’t Elise send you pictures when you’re away?”

Tim grinned. “Of course she does – but I know not to look at them when I’m on set, and the thing is, they’re pictures of her. Not pictures of me.”

Matt turned beet-red. “Look – we’ve all got our kinks.”

“But not all of us are raging narcissists.” Tim smirked.

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“What? That you’re a kinky freak that gets aroused by pictures of his own mouth? No one would believe me.”


	18. Bite Down. Hard (Teeth)

Neal should have known that Peter and Elizabeth weren’t a typical married couple, especially when Peter was willing to divulge their sexual interests during one of their very first conversations.

What surprised him the most about them, other than their collection of toys and high-end pornography, was how much they both loved to masturbate - sometimes when they were alone (which really meant, when Neal was there, but one of the Burkes was not), but quite often when they were together. It wasn’t a substitute for sex, but often an appetizer, a little amuse bouche.

El called it “simple pleasures,” Peter just smirked and asked for the lube. He joined in, of course – he could wank with the best of them (he was quite proud of his technique). The first time that El had asked them to come on her face, like some porn queen, he was a little horrified (but his dick was all for it).

And yet, one of the things that he loved most about watching his lovers bring themselves off was their teeth. Seeing Peter bite down on his lower lip as he worked himself to orgasm was a fierce goad to his desire. Those strong white teeth capturing his lower lip, head thrown back, oblivious to everything but his own pleasure was a vision Neal liked to replay throughout the day.

El, too – her tiny teeth biting down. Neal liked to watch her work herself so hard that she drew a little blood. For days afterwards, her lip was a little swollen, and Neal liked to suck on it so very gently, to make her gasp in pleasure/pain.

So his life was a little unique, a little different. But did it really matter that he had a tooth fetish when he was so completely loved?


	19. A Weekend, Alone

“So, how was your weekend?” Neal handed Peter a cup of espresso. It had been one of the rare ones that they didn’t see each other at least once.

“Nice – El and I…” Peter trailed off, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Got reacquainted after her long trip.”

Neal smirked. If El and Peter’s reunion had been anything like his when he had returned from Europe, he’d be surprised if Elizabeth was able to walk. When Peter got hungry, he was almost impossible to satisfy.

“What did you do this weekend?”

“Not much. Beat off.” Neal took a sip of his own espresso.

Peter, accustomed by now to Neal’s desire to shock, didn’t raise an eyebrow. “Sorry I missed it.”

Neal upped the ante. “Yeah, spent most of Saturday in bed, thinking about your lips.”

“My lips?”

“Yeah – how they look when you’ve got my cock stuffed in your mouth. Or when they’re stained with my come. I also liked thinking how they look slicked up with El’s juices.” Neal shifted in his chair. Damn, he was giving himself a hard on.

Peter remained impassive, at least from the waist up. “Am I now supposed to respond with my fantasies about your lips?”

“You have those?” Neal was pleased at the thought.

“Of course I do. I like seeing your lips swollen after I’ve kissed you. Or when they’re bruised just a little bit after I’ve beat them with my hard cock. Or when they’re wrapped around it and you’re struggling to take me all the way down.” Peter took another sip of espresso. “And at the risk of sounding unoriginal, come-stained is a really good look on you.”

Neal shook his head. “Peter, you can’t help it, can you?” He laughed. “Sitting here, having coffee and you still have to top me.”


	20. Patience is a Virtue (Picture Prompt)

From the corner of his eye, Peter watched Neal as he stood so still, so patient. His training had finally taken hold. They’ve been working at this for years. Neal resented Peter’s heavy hand at first, fighting the discipline. There were times that Neal would beg for external controls – a collar, a leash, blindfolds, bindings.

But Peter refused to use them. They were crutches, and he knew that Neal was too strong, too good to have to rely on such inferior props.

No – the only thing that Peter needed to keep Neal in line was his voice, the palm of his hand and his cock.

After four years, the results were breathtaking. Neal was still brilliant, charming and ever so slightly dangerous, but he was perfectly in control. The old Neal was a bright flame on the tip of a matchstick, quick to light and too easy to extinguish. This Neal would burn as steady as the fires at the core of the earth.

“What do you want, Neal?”

“I want to touch myself.”

Peter withheld his answer for the space of a dozen heartbeats. “No.” There was no reason to refuse Neal’s request except that he wanted to. The old Neal would have begged and bargained and then done just what he wanted. This Neal, the one he remade, would wait for permission and take greater pleasure for the wait.

He watched Neal, with his hands crossed over his groin, a protective shield against Peter’s knowing eyes, and took his own pleasure in making Neal wait. Letting him stand there, so still, so poised, so fucking beautiful, was arousing him.

Peter spun this out like a thread from a spool, letting his desire pool beneath his thighs and in his brain. Neal caught his eye and smiled. He knew.


	21. Strong Muscle (Tongue)

There is a lot of sexy on Neal Caffrey. His bright blue eyes and boyish, yet naughty smile. The hair and the 5 o’clock shadow that comes out sometime around two-ish. The arching cheekbones and perfect chin. And the body, ohmygod, that body. Clothed - so slim, so slight, so delicate. Unclothed, he could teach the ancient Greeks a thing or two about physical perfection.

But to Sara, one of the sexiest things about Neal is his tongue. Yeah - he’s a man who knows how to use it. In every possible way.

When she’s on the road, Neal can talk her into orgasm. He did that to her once when her flight was stuck on the runway for two hours. It’s a good thing that Sterling-Bosche had paid for business class and the seat next to hers was empty. He had her squirming and shifting, working the seam of her trousers between her labia, gently rocking back and forth until she explodes in a series of hard, fast little starbursts of delight.

She thought she had been with men and women who knew how to kiss, but Neal’s kisses - they are like some perfect and forbidden delight - maybe a rich, dark chocolate truffle. Sara likes to stretch out on her hotel bed and think about those kisses, one hand between her thighs, the other one brushing her own lips, trying to capture the memory of Neal’s tongue, strong and hot and hard, tasting her like she was a fine wine.

And thoughts of kissing lips lead to thoughts of kissing other lips, and she works her fingers on her clit. When she thinks of Neal’s tongue in her pussy, she doesn’t want a vibe or a dildo - only her fingertips can satisfy her.

She comes, wishing for something more.


	22. Cock Check (Penis)

Peter couldn’t believe it. Neal checked him out as he was arresting him. The man did a cock check on him, right in front of his girlfriend, in front of a dozen FBI agents. As he watched Jones put the cuffs on Caffrey and lead him away, Peter did his own checking, then unwrapped the stale lime green sucker. After this exchange, he couldn’t help imagine that the lollipop was Caffrey’s cock.

The encounter stayed in Peter’s head for years. And Caffrey never let him quite forget about it. The birthday cards, hand drawn works of art, always had a hidden code in them - like Al Hirshfeld’s Ninas. Only Neal’s cards, it was a little obscene - penises and lollipops, distributed throughout the artwork on the card. The first one was blatant - a birthday cake decorated with forty-some-odd cocks and suckers. The funny thing was, he hadn’t recognized them. It wasn’t until he handed the card to El, and she burst out in hysterical laughter that he understood the message.

Peter couldn’t help but wonder about Neal’s penis. Was it cut? Uncut? Was he big and thick? He hoped so.

Sunday mornings were lazy in the Burke household - he’d waste hot water rubbing one off in the shower dreaming about Neal Caffrey’s cock and the million ways he’d torment it. Peter would then climb back into bed, flushed and still a little damp and tell El about those fantasies. She’d open her thighs and stick her fingers into her cunt, bringing herself off to his words. He’d get so worked up by the sight of his wife masturbating to those stories that he’d flip her on her stomach and mount her like he’d imagine he would if he was fucking Neal.


	23. Polishing the Pearl (Clit)

Elizabeth was eleven when she discovered it by accident. She was taking a bubble bath and washing herself with a sponge. She’d gotten the “girl’s health lecture” that year, but the whole nonsense about bleeding and cramps and pimples was frankly disgusting, and she tried to put it out of her head.

Even now, with the distance of time and the haze of memory, Elizabeth could remember that it was a Saturday afternoon in April. Her mom had taken the brat to some stupid birthday party and her dad was out with the boys. Her softball game got rained out and as she trudged home, all she wanted was a hot bath, and then curl up with the newest Sweet Valley High book.

El leaned back against the tub in her very adult, very much married woman’s bathroom and imagined herself as that young girl, finding joy in her body for the very first time. Picking up a sea sponge and trailing it down her belly, El discarded the reality of her adult's body with its full breasts and hips and belly. She retreated to girlhood when her chest was flat and her hips were hard. Deep into her fantasy, she shivered as the sponge met her bare pudenda, and then she lightly, gently, softly brushed it against her pussy. The sponge, though soft and fully with water, was rough against her nubbin – her little pearl of joy. Her clit.

She savored the sensation and repeated it, no harder than the first time. Her nipples perked up through the soapy bathwater and her hips thrashed as she teased herself over and over.

She drew out the sensation – mingling innocent memory with mature desire. Her climax came in an abrupt rush, almost too harsh, almost too sweet.

Almost too perfect.


	24. A Pinch of Fantasy (Nipples - RPS)

(I)

Filming tomorrow includes yet another shirtless scene.   
   
At least it is supposed to be the last one of the season, and it’s also his first big clinch scene with Hilarie.  She’s a stunning woman, a good actor, and very professional – so it won’t be a hardship. According to the blocking, she’s supposed to ride his leg like an obscene circus pony while he’s ripping his shirt off.  Everything worked fine in rehearsal, but you never know what’s going to happen when the cameras are rolling.  
   
At least he doesn’t have to worry about popping wood during the kiss scene, as lovely as Hilarie is.  Not like the last scene they shot for Payback, when he threw himself into Tim’s arms over and over again.  And then he got punch-drunk stupid, and kissed him.  For the gag reel.   
   
Matt tried not to think about that kiss.  About the erection he was sporting when they broke apart.  _Not smart, Bomer._   Willie had called him on his crush, and he was right.  Tim’s a straight boy, nauseatingly happy with Elise and the kids – and it’s not as if Matt doesn’t feel the same about _his_ husband and children.  But, it’s just…  
   
Hormones.  Chemistry.  Whatever.  
   
Alone in his apartment, naked on the bed, air conditioning flowing over him, Matt’s horny as a teenager.  But he doesn’t want to explore why thoughts of Simon are doing nothing for him.  Matt thinks about his husband’s beautiful body – tall and lean and rangy, and pulls on himself, but gets nowhere close to hard.  Maybe it’s just exhaustion.

His mind drifted and an image of Tim floats behind his eyelids, all perspired from a game of basketball. A droplet of sweat hanging from one sharp pointed nipple.

Matt’s cock is instantly hard as steel.

(II)

Matt’s never been one for outrageous sexual fantasies, but tonight, something is making his brain work in the most twisted, kinky ways.

  
_Tim’s behind him, whispering in his ear. “We’ve got to get you ready for your shirtless scene, Bomer.”_

 _Matt loves when Tim talks like that - all low and growly._

His cock jerks up in his hand.

  
_“Those tits of yours need to be at attention.” Tim loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders, but leaving it hanging from his arms._

 _They are standing in front of the mirror in his dressing room - it’s an obscene sight. Tim in Peter’s dark blue suit, holding him back, his dark head resting on his shoulder. Matt holds his breath and watches as Tim’s hands cup his pecs. His thumbs brush his nipples, the rough skin teasing the sensitive nubs._

 _“You like that, don’t you?” Matt nods._

 _Tim pinches the left one hard and Matt’s whole body jerks, bucking against the other man and the hot, hard erection that seems to really like the crack in his ass._

 _“Tim … this isn’t you.” He moans._

 _“Shh … it’s just a fantasy.” Tim bites his earlobe and pinches the right nipple, this time scraping it with his fingernail. Matt whimpers and writhes against him._

 _“You’re such a good slut, aren’t you?”_

Matt works his cock and pinches his own tit, moaning “good slut, good slut” repeatedly. He can feel the orgasm building. He forces himself to slow down. Matt wants this to last.

  
_“Are you my slut, Mattie? Are you my boy?”_

 _“Yes, Tim. I’m yours.”_

 _“Touch yourself.” Tim grinds his cock into his ass and Matt fucks himself on that hot pole._

As Matt comes in his fantasy, he comes in reality, scaling hot semen splashing across his belly.


	25. Deep Breathing Exercises (Breath/Breathe - RPS)

(I)

Filming tomorrow includes yet another shirtless scene.   
   
At least it is supposed to be the last one of the season, and it’s also his first big clinch scene with Hilarie.  She’s a stunning woman, a good actor, and very professional – so it won’t be a hardship. According to the blocking, she’s supposed to ride his leg like an obscene circus pony while he’s ripping his shirt off.  Everything worked fine in rehearsal, but you never know what’s going to happen when the cameras are rolling.  
   
At least he doesn’t have to worry about popping wood during the kiss scene, as lovely as Hilarie is.  Not like the last scene they shot for Payback, when he threw himself into Tim’s arms over and over again.  And then he got punch-drunk stupid, and kissed him.  For the gag reel.   
   
Matt tried not to think about that kiss.  About the erection he was sporting when they broke apart.  _Not smart, Bomer._   Willie had called him on his crush, and he was right.  Tim’s a straight boy, nauseatingly happy with Elise and the kids – and it’s not as if Matt doesn’t feel the same about _his_ husband and children.  But, it’s just…  
   
Hormones.  Chemistry.  Whatever.  
   
Alone in his apartment, naked on the bed, air conditioning flowing over him, Matt’s horny as a teenager.  But he doesn’t want to explore why thoughts of Simon are doing nothing for him.  Matt thinks about his husband’s beautiful body – tall and lean and rangy, and pulls on himself, but gets nowhere close to hard.  Maybe it’s just exhaustion.

His mind drifted and an image of Tim floats behind his eyelids, all perspired from a game of basketball. A droplet of sweat hanging from one sharp pointed nipple.

Matt’s cock is instantly hard as steel.

(II)

Matt’s never been one for outrageous sexual fantasies, but tonight, something is making his brain work in the most twisted, kinky ways.

  
_Tim’s behind him, whispering in his ear. “We’ve got to get you ready for your shirtless scene, Bomer.”_

 _Matt loves when Tim talks like that - all low and growly._

His cock jerks up in his hand.

  
_“Those tits of yours need to be at attention.” Tim loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders, but leaving it hanging from his arms._

 _They are standing in front of the mirror in his dressing room - it’s an obscene sight. Tim in Peter’s dark blue suit, holding him back, his dark head resting on his shoulder. Matt holds his breath and watches as Tim’s hands cup his pecs. His thumbs brush his nipples, the rough skin teasing the sensitive nubs._

 _“You like that, don’t you?” Matt nods._

 _Tim pinches the left one hard and Matt’s whole body jerks, bucking against the other man and the hot, hard erection that seems to really like the crack in his ass._

 _“Tim … this isn’t you.” He moans._

 _“Shh … it’s just a fantasy.” Tim bites his earlobe and pinches the right nipple, this time scraping it with his fingernail. Matt whimpers and writhes against him._

 _“You’re such a good slut, aren’t you?”_

Matt works his cock and pinches his own tit, moaning “good slut, good slut” repeatedly. He can feel the orgasm building. He forces himself to slow down. Matt wants this to last.

  
_“Are you my slut, Matty? Are you my boy?”_

 _“Yes, Tim. I’m yours.”_

 _“Touch yourself.” Tim grinds his cock into his ass and Matt fucks himself on that hot pole._

As Matt comes in his fantasy, he comes in reality, scaling hot semen splashing across his belly.


	26. Life is Good (Whisper)

“You good?”

Peter has Neal tucked up against him, back to front, spooning. His spent cock is nestled in the hot, slick crack of his partner’s ass. They had fucked like bunnies for most of the evening and were now enjoying the afterglow.

“Yeah, I’m very good.” Neal’s voice is soft, dreamy, barely audible.

Peter rests his chin on Neal’s shoulder and looks down the length of his body. Neal’s cock is still impressively hard. Ah, the joys of youth.

“You look like you’ve still got one more in you.”

“Mmmm, yeah.” Neal’s response is barely audible.

“I want to see you do yourself.” Neal tilts his head back, trying to catch his eye. Peter smiles and kisses his forehead.

“You want to see me jack off?”

Peter picks up Neal’s hand and places it on his cock. “Let me see you work it. I’ve always told you that you handle yourself very well in most situations.”

Neal grins at his double entendre and doesn’t resist as Peter guides his hand around his dick. He picks up the rhythm that he likes and Peter lets him go.

“That’s it, come on baby. Work your meat.” Peter whispers in Neal’s ear. And they both dissolve into giggles.

“My meat? What am I, a star in your favorite porno?” Despite the laughter, Neal keeps stroking himself. His long fingers are languidly gliding up and down. Peter kisses his shoulder and then sets his teeth against the skin, nipping him. Neal’s cock jerks in pleasure.

“I want to see you come.” He licks Neal’s ear and keeps up a steady stream of ridiculously sexy whispers.

Neal’s hand works faster in response to his exhortations. He spills out over his fist, and Peter lifts it to his mouth, sucking on his fingers and thumb.


	27. Unexpectedly Perfect (Bite)

Clinton teased the crescent shaped bruise on his hipbone, then pressed hard. He wasn’t surprised when his cock began to chub up. He liked the pain. He liked it when his partners dished it out, but he liked it more after they left and he could lie back on cool, clean sheets and toy with the damaged parts of his body.

He wasn’t a masochist like Severin from Venus in Furs. He didn’t like to be humiliated or tortured. He just liked his sex to sting a bit.

There were few women he was able to share this kink with - most either quietly left, or tried too hard. Guys were a little better - except that they usually wanted to play power games, too, and that pissed him off.

It was funny that the one person who was fully able to give him what he needed was the most unlikely sexual partner he ever had. Neal’s friend - the little guy. Mozzie.

He never figured that the little guy would be so hot. Under the facade of crazy super-genius and professional paranoid was a man of incredible sexual inventiveness. And understanding - particularly about personal space and just how far to go.

“You doing okay?” Moz had showered and dressed and was preparing to leave. “I didn’t go too far, did I?”

Clinton toyed with his cock and smiled at the other man. “Nope - you were perfect. Are you good?”

Moz grinned back and rubbed his shoulder, where Clinton had bitten him during climax. “I’m great.”

“When can I see you again?” Clinton held his breath. It wasn’t like he was asking for a date. All they did was fuck - but damn - he was getting hard thinking about Moz’s sharp teeth and pinching fingers.

“I’m free on Friday night, if you are.”


	28. There is a Reason Why Envy is a Sin (Lick)

“I envy him”

“Yeah, I do too.”

“You’re so bendy, you could probably do it without hurting yourself.”

It was a Saturday night in July. Elizabeth was working - someplace with lots of A/C - leaving Peter and Neal and Satchmo sweltering at Chez Burke. It was only slightly cooler than Neal’s apartment.

They were both drinking ice cold beer and watching the family dog lick his balls.

“I’m surprised you haven’t had Satch n-e-u-t-e-r-e-d.” Neal spelled out the last word, as if the slurping beast could understand.

“We did.” Peter grinned.

Neal looked from the parts the dog was licking back to Peter and back to the dog. “I hate to tell you, but that dog has balls.”

“He has prosthetics. Neuticles. Synthetic testicles. I didn’t want him to get depressed.”

Neal chuckled and shoved a hand down his shorts, grabbing hold of himself. “He’s getting a bit of a red rocket down there.”

“He’s a dog, those things happen.”

Satchmo just kept licking. And licking. And licking.

It was disgusting and yet strangely arousing. Peter copied Neal.

“If ball-licking were an Olympic sport, Satchmo would medal in all of the endurance events.”

Peter snorted at his lover’s drunken joke. The dog paused in his effort and looked up, giving them both the stink-eye and went back to licking.

“Yes, Satchmo - you’re a champion ball-licker, the pride and hope of the Burke household.” Neal spoke in a silly baby voice, which Peter thought highly disturbing, considering how Neal had opened his shorts and dragged his big dick out, and stroked it in time with his words. The dog ignored him, thankfully.

Peter left his cock inside his shorts, but continued to watch his dog go after his balls like they were liver-flavored.

He was drunk. Definitely drunk. And hot. And aroused.

This was so wrong.


	29. Morning After Memories (Navel)

Peter’s lying on the big bed in Neal’s loft, the Manhattan skyline framed by floor to ceiling windows. Neal’s in the shower but he’s lingering, wallowing in the sex-scented sheets and goddamn, but he’s getting another erection.

He toys with himself and with the memory of their night.

 _He’s on his back and Neal’s on his knees and he’s trying to get him to take his iron-hard prick in his mouth, but Neal’s playing hard to get. Instead, he’s teasing Peter, licking and nibbling his way down his torso, playing first with his nipples, then the ripples of his abdominal muscles, and finally his navel._

 _Neal licks and bites at the tight skin framing the indentation, whispering how he wants to flip Peter over and do the same thing to his ass. Neal then tongue-fucks him and he comes in a blinding rush._

He’s hard as stone, hard as iron again - just from the recollection. He figures he’ll still be getting hard from that when he’s ninety. Peter doesn’t take his dick in hand, instead, he licks his middle finger and begins to tease the orifice, imagining Neal’s wicked mouth. His other hand pinches his nipple. He closes his eyes as he plays with his body. He’s so caught up in the sensation that he doesn’t hear the shower turn off or his lover come back into the bedroom and drop his towel on the floor.

“You’re so gorgeous, do you know that?”

Peter opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Neal, standing there, his hand on his cock, languidly pulling on in. Peter’s finger doesn’t leave his navel except to scoop up some of the pre-come leaking from his dick.

He doesn’t think he could come, just from this. But Neal smiles and he does - in perfect joy.


	30. Liquid Mornings (Kiss)

Elizabeth licks her lips, savoring the taste of her husband’s good morning kiss. There is coffee and a hint of cinnamon toothpaste, and the essential flavor of Peter Burke.

She has a late client appointment and can afford to linger in bed today. Which is nice, because she’s kind of sore. In a good way.

Her hand drifts down to cup her pussy and she licks her lips again. She toys with the pulpy wetness in her cunt – her own juices and her husband’s come. She thinks about last night – not the fucking, but what came before the fucking. They watch a movie – one of her old favorites, The Paper, and as the credits start to roll, Peter feels up her tits like they were teenagers. She giggles and he pounces. They make out – pure and simple, he kisses her like the world is coming to an end, or that he need her air to breathe.

Elizabeth pushes two fingers into herself and moans in painful pleasure. Nights like last night are treasured – not just because Peter works at her like a pile driver, but because of the eager tenderness that precipitates the good hard fucking. It’s like they are kids, instead of a couple that just celebrated their silver anniversary.

She climaxes with a sigh and lets herself drift off for just a little bit, until a noise distracts her. She turns her head – Peter’s standing in the doorway, a hand over his crotch, lightly stroking himself.

Elizabeth beckons him closer.

“I’m going to be late if we start something, Mrs. Burke.”

“You’re the boss – just tell your staff your wife needed you.”

Peter bends down and kisses her, sending her blood thrumming. “They’ll think I’m nothing more than a sex toy.”

She smiles. “Who’s to say you’re not.”


	31. Lost Dreams (Kiss)

She brushes her fingers over her lips in memory of his last kiss.

They had parted in anger, and remained apart for years. It is her fault – she is jealous, insecure, weak. She isn’t fearless, and she always worries that she is never good enough, smart enough, brave enough for him.

Now, wrapped up in plots within plots, danger at every turn, she knows that she isn’t what he needs.

Kate brushes her fingers against her lips and remembers the sweetness, the adoration, the wicked purity of Neal’s love and wishes everything could have been different. She doesn’t touch her body, though – she hasn’t been able to find release since she walked out on him all those years ago.

That’s a good thing – she should pay for her lack of faith, her flawed love.

She wants to cry, but she can’t. Not yet, at least. Maybe Neal will hold her close and let her sob her heart out and he’ll forgive her for everything.

Their reunion will be soon. A private plane, rigged to explode, is waiting for them. So much could go wrong, they could all die, but this is the only way out.

She brushes her lips with her fingertips and remembers his last kiss. She wonders if Neal will be able to tell that she hasn’t been faithful – that she’s let men fuck her because she needs to know that she’s still alive (and she still doesn’t know). At least she picked men who don’t want anything more than her body – Keller, Adler, and once with that pathetic schmuck, Fowler, who couldn’t even get it up as he cried for his wife.

Kate picks up her bag and the unregistered mobile. A car is waiting to take her to her to Neal and their new life.


	32. Full Circle (Love)

Love was never supposed to be part of this equation. At least not between the two of them. Yes, love drove Neal to make his boneheaded escape. A few wise words about love lead Peter to agree to Neal’s bizarre work-release proposition.

But between Peter and Neal, no - there was not supposed to be love. At best, he hoped for grudging respect, maybe, just maybe, friendship. But not love.

Peter looked out over the bullpen. Neal had his head down, diligently working through a box of files. But he knew Peter was watching. Peter could tell, from the way his shoulders just slightly shifted, how his lips curled, how his eyelids drop for just a second.

Knowing that Neal loved him aroused him - not just physically - but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. It was such a strange path they had taken and through some very bad times. Peter still couldn’t quite see the happy ending yet.

Neal looked up, catching his eye just for a moment. Peter knew what the look meant, and as wrong as it was to satisfy Neal, he couldn’t quite help himself today. Peter left his office, and without a sidelong glance at Neal, headed for the stairs and the archives.

It smelled like the basement stacks of a college library, and was just as private.

Peter corralled Neal between the 1967-68 civil rights division files, backing him into the cardboard boxes, holding him there with one arm

“Tell me, I need you to tell me.” Peter’s voice was harsh, urgent. This wasn’t a game they played. This was for real. It was their life.

Neal looked up at Peter, and Peter’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of those glowing blue eyes.

Neal smiled. “I love you, Peter Burke. Even if you steal my underpants and jack off into them. I'll always love you.”


End file.
